


Dyslexia

by xSkaifayax



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detention, Dyslexia, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Secret Crush, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9727346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xSkaifayax/pseuds/xSkaifayax
Summary: “What happened?”Murphy met the older man’s eyes. “None of your business, Blake.”His change in tone surprised Bellamy, and it even ticked him off a little. “You made it my business when you sat outside of my apartment at 4am.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gmorningfaith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmorningfaith/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day! This was actually a fic written for one of my good friends, Faith (gmorningfaith), who introduced me to Murphamy almost a year ago. She is SUCH a talented writer, and her fics will make you laugh and cry so please go check them out! I wrote this for her, because she is a wonderful human being who deserves all of the love in the world and I am just so thankful for her! <3 (This was also originally written as part of Murphamy Week 2016, when one of the prompts was Dyslexia, but obviously I am a tad late. I hope you enjoy it, anyway! ;) )

_Dyslexia_

Everything had changed since the Blakes had moved in next door, and John Murphy couldn't help but blame them for the fact that things had gotten this out of control. He had been fine before they had shown up, before that girl - Olivia or Octavia or whatever - had come to his school, before her stupid brother had knocked on the door to Murphy's apartment two weeks ago asking to borrow a candle or a flashlight when the building's power had gone out, before Murphy had to turn him down because all he had was a lighter and his mother was screaming obscenities at him from inside the house and Olivia or Octavia or whatever's brother could hear her and there was a little crease between his eyebrows that Murphy just couldn't ignore until he slammed the door right in his face.

If they had never moved here, maybe Murphy wouldn't have ended up in detention with Olivia or Octavia or whatever, and maybe Mr. Kane wouldn't have suggested that they do their time outside of the classroom. Murphy hoped they could get away with a little community service or something (anything to get out of the house for a few extra hours), but what Mr. Kane meant was that Murphy was flunking English (even though he worked twice as hard as the other kids to keep up) and he needed a tutor, which, of course, was Olivia or Octavia or whatever, who looked like she would have rather spent her time with _anyone_ else, even that Jasper kid who smoked pot in the school parking lot everyday. They had two weeks to get John's act together or else they'd be scraping graffiti off of the bathroom walls for the next three.

Murphy would have rather scraped the graffiti.

The first time they met for tutoring, they met in the library after school and it was a total waste of time. Octavia or Olivia or whatever was civil to him, but she wasn't patient or good at explaining things. Needless to say, it had ended in a screaming match, and both of them had been kicked out of the library.

The second time they met, they met at her house, which was both a little bit better and a little bit worse, because they wouldn't get kicked out, but after her brother got home from work, Murphy would feel a pair of familiar dark eyes drift to his still form every now and then and he couldn't concentrate. Nothing was accomplished that day.

The third time they met, Olivia or Octavia or whatever made even less sense than before, and when Murphy brought her lack of teaching skills to her attention, she stormed to her room and slammed the door shut. He was shoving his notebook into his backpack when her brother took a seat at the table, extending a hand to him. "Let's see it."

Murphy paused, half bent over toward his backpack as he stared at the other boy, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Excuse me?"

The man wasn't fazed at all by the icy glare fixated on him. "Whatever you were just working on. Let's see it."

Murphy rolled his eyes - he even muttered under his breath to get the point across - before he dropped the notebook back onto the table with a _slap_. "Why do you even care?"

"Relax." His voice was deep, gruff. "This isn't about you. It's about my sister. Now are you just going to sit there or are we gonna get this done?"

It turned out that this guy - Bellamy, he later found out - wasn't as good at English as his sister - _Octavia_ \- but he was a heck of a lot more patient and willing to help Murphy understand the material.

Octavia had come out of her room half an hour after she had stormed inside, and she looked surprised to find her brother helping Murphy. Bellamy didn't seem to notice her - he was too busy trying to explain conjunctions - but Murphy shot her a look. She didn't go back to her room, but she did sit on the couch in the next room, texting someone and periodically glancing up at Murphy and Bellamy. Murphy wasn't sure what she was waiting for - it wasn't as if there would be some sort of life-altering breakthrough. In fact, the only breakthrough he was having now was the fact that although English was starting to make a little more sense, it was still pointless.

Octavia's brother didn't stop talking until John's stomach growled - obnoxiously, at that - and the older man glanced at the clock to find that it was past 8:00pm. He straightened and stretched and Murphy pretended his eyes weren't drawn to Bellamy's defined biceps. "It's getting late." He stood and Murphy avoided his gaze. "Good work. We'll finish this later."

Murphy could only nod as he raked the books and pencils into his backpack. He wasn't eager to go home - there wasn't much to eat, and it was almost always freezing inside - but something about the thought of coming back to the Blakes' apartment lifted his spirits, if even just a little. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice soft.

"Don't mention it." And then Bellamy's hand was around his and the shake was firm, but Murphy could feel the heat creeping up his neck. He had to get out of there.

That night, he stayed up half the night reading and rereading the last few pages of S.E. Hinton's _The Outsiders_ to himself. He read it in a whisper, careful not to wake his mother, who was snoring in the next room, where she slept under the influence of one too many bottles of vodka. _The Outsiders_ had been required reading for almost two weeks now, and he knew there was a paper about how it could relate to his generation due for it next week, but he'd barely had time to sleep, much less read, with his mother's constant drinking and mood swings and shouting.

He knew either Bellamy or Octavia would bring the paper up the next day after school, but he didn't want to look like a complete idiot, especially not in front of Bellamy. Not that he cared or anything. Because he didn't. It was just that he didn't really feel like scrubbing graffiti off of the bathroom walls anymore.

"You spelled 'die' wrong," Octavia pointed out when the three of them were sitting around the table after school the next day. Murphy could care less what Octavia thought of his paper - he was pretty sure he had spelled "die" correctly, anyway, so the joke was on her. It was Bellamy he had hoped to impress. Not that he was even sure why. Not that it mattered what the older man thought of him. Not that he _cared_ by any stretch of the imagination.

Bellamy had agreed to help with the tutoring - mostly to buffer any arguments that were sure to come up - as long as it was Octavia helping with most of the work. The Blakes were crowded around the first draft of Murphy's paper (which was really just a page of short paragraphs scrawled out in illegible handwriting), their eyebrows furrowed as they struggled to make sense of each sentence.

But he had worked hard on the paper - he'd spent the entire lunch period and part of U.S. History working on it, and he'd thought he'd done a pretty good job, especially since he'd only read the end of the book, but apparently Octavia thought otherwise.

"This doesn't make any sense," she said when she was finished reading, and Murphy rolled his eyes. " _The Outsiders_ was a tragic and heroic story. There was nothing hysterical about it."

"Well, if you had been paying _attention_ , oh wise one," Murphy began, yanking the paper out of Bellamy's hands to show her, "then you would've known that I said it was _historical_ , not hysterical."

Octavia frowned and leaned forward, her long hair brushing against the paper when she did. "Murphy, that says 'hysterical.' "

"I think I would know what _I_ wrote."

Octavia sighed, and he knew her patience was running thin already. Good. Maybe she would let Bellamy take it from here. "Even if you _did_ write 'historical,' there is nothing historical about this book."

 _God,_ this girl was so naive. "It was written in the '60s."

"So? There's nothing historical about that."

"Well, since you're so freakin' smart, why don't you write the paper?"

"All right." It was Bellamy, and Murphy was glad, because Octavia had already opened her mouth to argue back and he was sick of being made fun of. "O, you're not helping. Take a break." He watched her leave the room with a huff before his dark eyes fell on Murphy's paper again, and suddenly the latter felt nervous. "You didn't read the book, did you?"

The look in his eyes told Murphy that lying would be pointless, so the younger boy sighed, eyebrows furrowed as he fiddled with the pencil between his fingers. "Fine. I only read the ending, okay? But what do they expect? This book is crap. Everyone dies in the end, anyway."

"And that's how you think it can relate to your generation?" Bellamy asked, not judging, just asking. "Kids deal with a lot of death?"

Murphy despised the way that word - _kids_ \- rolled off of Bellamy's tongue, and Murphy had to stop himself from pondering too much over why Bellamy saw him as a kid. "Those of us who aren't privileged do."

Bellamy grinned then, his smile brighter and more sincere that anything Murphy had ever laid eyes on. Murphy averted his gaze, trying to ignore the urge to get a second glance. "Now, see? That's exactly the kind of paper you should write."

If this made Murphy feel any better (it did), then he didn't show it. Instead, he moved his gaze to the paper resting on the table's surface. "Too bad I suck at writing."

"We'll work on that." Bellamy sounded like he had enough confidence for both of them, and Murphy was thinking about how lucky Octavia was, to be near him all of the time, to be accepted, encouraged. "The 'historical' thing-"

"It's dyslexia," Murphy cut in. "Teacher told my mom; she said she would work with me at home, that never happened." He swallowed, the pencil slipping through his fingers to clatter against the table's surface. "But it's whatever, right? She never gave a crap about me to begin with."

Maybe Bellamy didn't know what to say (that wasn't likely, because he didn't look uncomfortable in the slightest), but if he did know how to respond to Murphy’s last sentence, he never said anything. "Dyslexia," he repeated, and there was something about the way it sounded on his lips that made Murphy think maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have. "Not bad."

The next few days were both eventful and excruciating. Murphy was over at the Blakes' apartment everyday except Sunday, when they all decided they had earned a break. Octavia and Bellamy took turns listening to him read various excerpts of _The Outsiders_ , helping him with certain words or sentences whenever necessary. Neither of them were as patient as he'd hoped they'd be, but they refused to give up, and they even helped him with his paper.

He’d decided that they weren’t quite friends - still just neighbors - but he was finding it a little easier to tolerate them these days. They had less than a week before tutoring was over, and Murphy had to hand in a copy of his final paper to Mr. Kane when everything finally came crashing down, and Murphy wished he had never met Bellamy Blake.

Murphy’s mother was angry that night - okay, she was angry every night, but this one was different, and Murphy knew why. He had tried not to think about it at school. Even after school, he had done everything from wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood to smoking cigarettes with Mbege to keep his mind off of things. But it was no use; nothing could stop the memories that flooded into his mind, memories of him, his father, _happiness_ , when things were different.

He and his mother had never done anything special on the anniversary of his father’s death. His mother spent most of the day locked inside the house, drinking even more than usual, and Murphy spent more of the day out of the house. This year was no different, but of course it became much worse.

He’d skipped out on tutoring with the Blakes, but they could probably hear his mother’s screaming through the walls that night, so it wasn’t likely they’d want him around, anyway. He’d ignored the calls he received from Mbege on his old flip phone, and he’d locked himself in his room, the lights off so that maybe his mother would think he wasn’t home when she finally came stumbling in after her nightly trip to the liquor store.

But it was no use. It was false hope. It always was.

The smack against his face stung, almost as much as the glass from the bottle that shattered against the wall next to him, digging into the flesh of his arm, but neither of those things cut quite as deep as the words that sliced through his heart, cold and unforgiving.

He’d always known that his mother had blamed him for his father’s death - after all, it was Murphy who had called him, frantic about something at school, just before the accident happened. His dad had been worried, and he promised he would make it to the school as fast as he could. He was going to hang up, but Murphy was the one who had insisted he stay on the phone until he got there. He had been too focused on Murphy’s panic to notice the car pulling out in front of him up ahead, and he had died that day in the accident.

Murphy knew it was his fault. His mother didn’t have to remind him.

There was something about hearing her say it, though, something about the way her desperation crept through her fury and stabbed at his heart. She had loved his father, more than anyone or anything. It was no secret that his death had destroyed her, too, and instead of losing one parent, Murphy had lost two.

There were many days when he wondered why he put up with his mother’s crap, why he endured and stayed in this crappy apartment after all she had put him through, but today wasn’t one of those days. On this day, every year, he remembered why he put up with it, why he took a few extra hits. It wasn’t because he wanted it. It was because he deserved it. He had killed his father.

By the time he finally fled the apartment, his mother was screaming at him, tears falling down her cheeks, her words slurred, and there was blood trailing from his temple from the book she had thrown at him. He didn’t cry - Murphy knew better than to do that anymore - but that didn’t mean her words hadn’t cut deep.

Outside the apartment, he kicked the wall across the hall, cursing under his breath. It was late, well into the early hours of the morning, and if anyone heard his mother’s screams or his kick against the wall outside, no one stirred.

He slammed a fist against the side of the wall, cursing under his breath as he lowered himself to the ground. Inside his apartment, his mother’s screams had dissolved into tears, and her heartbreak was evident. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

He didn’t know how long he sat there in the cold, with nothing but a T-shirt to keep him warm. It might have have been minutes or hours, but it felt like days. He knew he could go to Mbege’s house instead of just sitting outside his apartment, but he didn’t want anyone else to see him like this (though Mbege had many times before). This day was just horrible, and he wanted it to be over.

At some point in the middle of his misery, a door came open and out of the apartment across from him stepped Bellamy Blake. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but Bellamy was dressed for work, the keys to his truck dangling from his fingers as he locked the apartment behind him and turned. He stopped short when he spotted Murphy, blood trailing from his temple, arm bleeding. Those familiar, brown eyes filled with concern and Murphy could feel the panic rising in his chest when Bellamy said his name, walking toward him immediately.

Murphy wanted to back up - in fact, he almost tried before he realized there was a wall behind him and there was nowhere else for him to go - but it was no use, and Bellamy crouched down in front of him, a defined crease between his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” Murphy replied, but it sounded pathetic, even to him, and the look Bellamy shot him only affirmed his suspicions. He met the older man’s eyes, this time with more strength and assurance. “None of your business, Blake.”

His change in tone seemed to surprise Bellamy, even tick him off a little. “You made it my business when you sat outside of my apartment at 4am.”

“My apartment is next to yours, genius,” Murphy spat.

Bellamy shot him a look, one he couldn’t ignore. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Fine.” He stood, and Murphy refused to look at him. “I’m gonna go to work, and I expect you to be gone when I get back.” He turned without a second glance at the beaten teen before him, and he had almost made it to the parking lot when he stopped walking, turning back around to start toward Murphy. “You know what? I’m fed up with your ungrateful attitude. All we’ve done since we met you is help you, and this is the thanks we get?”

Murphy refused to look up at him, refused to acknowledge that Bellamy was right - they had helped him time and time again, and yet Murphy was still pushing him away. But who could blame him? Things like this - things like kindness and Bellamy and arguments at 4am - would only lead to heartbreak and disappointment in the end. Murphy, for one, had had enough of that to last a lifetime; he didn’t need anymore, especially not from Bellamy Blake.

Bellamy sighed, and Murphy knew he was too nice for his own good. Perhaps that was Bellamy’s greatest flaw: he cared too much. Sure, he had a short temper and he could be impatient and stubborn, but he had a heart. Murphy was glad he hadn’t been cursed with such a trait.

The dark haired man took a seat next to him on the ground, leaning back against the apartment behind them. “All right, kid.” Murphy still hated that word. “Who did this to you?”

Murphy looked at everything except Bellamy - the wooden stairs leading up to the second floor were especially interesting - but his silence did nothing to make Bellamy leave, and whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he couldn’t tell.

“It was your mother.” It wasn’t a question, and Murphy’s head swung around until he was staring at Bellamy, eyes wide. “We could hear her screaming through the walls.”

Murphy chuckled bitterly. “Hard to miss,” he muttered under his breath. “Like I said, she never gave a shit about me.” He said it, but he knew that wasn’t true. Before his father had died, his mother had loved him more than anyone, other than his father. She had been patient back then, one of the kindest people he knew. It wasn’t her fault that he had a bad habit of wrecking good things, messing things up. He couldn’t blame her when he was the one who had changed her, turned her into this stranger. “But who can blame her, right? She never thought she’d have a loser for a son.”

His voice was strong, and his eyes were void of tears when Bellamy glanced back at him. If Bellamy was expecting some sort of sappy explanation, he certainly wasn’t getting one, not from John Murphy. They were neighbors - they had met because of Octavia. There was no reason for the two of them to be talking right now, there was no reason for Bellamy to care. Murphy wished he’d just go away.

“Come on.” Bellamy’s tone of voice said he had made a decision without informing Murphy of it first, and the younger boy watched as he got to his feet. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“I don’t need your help,” Murphy snapped, and Bellamy rolled his eyes. It was good, Murphy thought. Bellamy was going to get tired of him, annoyed with him, just like everyone else, and he would go away. Murphy didn’t need him, and he’d known it was only a matter of time before Bellamy realized he was wasting his time.

“I don’t care,” Bellamy shot back. “Either you get up, or you sit out here alone.”

In the end, Murphy had gone inside. He’d protested - a lot - and Bellamy was just about fed up with him, but it was as if there was a silent agreement that neither one of them were going to push it too far because of everything that had just happened. Murphy had nowhere else to go right now, and he’d risk one of their neighbors finding him with blood trailing down his face if he stayed outside. So, in the end, he decided to let Bellamy lead him inside the apartment to piece together the shards of his shitty life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Find this fic on my Tumblr (skaifayax) and there's a nice aesthetic to go with it. ;D


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